


When you can't take, give.

by fuckslikeagod (rhoentree)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhoentree/pseuds/fuckslikeagod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't how Barca had expected his Friday night to go. After waking up in hospital and finding himself in the care of Pietros, an incredibly beautiful male nurse whose generous bedside manner seems to extend to... other areas... he ends up falling for the younger man, something he had no intention of doing, and that can only end in more heartache.</p><p>Rated for later chapters. More pairings and characters will be added to the info as they're introduced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When you can't take, give.

**Author's Note:**

> Initially I sat down to write PWP, but then this happened.
> 
> As this is a modern AU, I gave Barca and Pietros full names, before I realised that I was going to be writing a lot more than just oneshot smut. They're probably going to be the only two in this work to actually have a first and last name.
> 
> Work is un-beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

He was sure he was waking up, but his senses weren't cooperating, unconsciousness unwilling to let him go. Barca tried to raise his hand to his head, where he could feel pain radiating out from where he'd been hit – fuck, how had that happened? – but something held his arm in place. The sheets beneath him and the blanket covering his body were unfamiliar, and shifted strangely as he tried to move, and he became aware all at once of not just the strength of pain in his skull, but also of the localised discomfort in his arm, of the noise of conversation somewhere nearby, and the piercing brightness and sharp clinical smell of... no, it wasn't just the bedding, it was the whole place.

He hadn't realised he'd groaned in irritation at returning awareness, and his eyes scrunched against the still too-bright light. He turned away from it. His body felt... heavy, his heart rate too fast.

"Hey, welcome back," a warm, unfamiliar voice greeted. Male. Soft. Barca didn't realise how anxious he felt until that sound reached him. He relaxed uncharacteristically, understanding now the warm touch easily keeping his arm in place. A sedative seemed to still be flowing through his veins. Breathing out through the pain he felt at the back of his head – more the base of his neck, really, but the pain radiated out and he didn't give a fuck what kind of pain it was, it was there, and Barca wanted it gone – he tried to ease his eyes open and see who had spoken to him.

"Fuck happened?"

His throat was too dry, and he worked to swallow and ease the discomfort as his eyes finally opened and he squinted in the harsh light. Sure, he noticed his surroundings and the room he was in as best he could in the unrelenting glare, but the thing that came to the forefront of his attention was the astonishingly attractive young man standing beside his bed, whose hand rested on Barca’s skin. He was wearing hospital uniform, and as Barca looked at him, the guy’s hold on his arm loosened, as if he could sense Barca no longer intended to try and reach to feel his injury – he’d forgotten the attempt almost entirely. He could feel an expression of complete confusion and amazement across his own face. He knew where he was, and had a vague sense of what had happened, but right now...? He couldn't quite work out why such an attractive young man was standing there, soft brown eyes fixed with kind concern on Barca's, a warm smile gracing his lips. He had the most beautiful, dark skin, and Barca wanted to reach out and discover if it really was as soft as it looked. Belatedly, he realised the touch had completely gone from his lower arm, and mourned the loss of it. The uncomfortable anxiety returned to him

"Do you know where you are?"

Barca felt a sudden flicker of annoyance. Was this guy stupid or something? He scowled, eyes shifting past the young man's frame, trying to understand the sudden irritation and unease he felt, whilst making sure his surroundings hadn't changed. He was surprised to find that he remembered being in a different part of what must be the same building, in a different bed and surrounded by more people, and with a lot more pain and confusion. Shit, had he been sick too? "Hospital."

He received a nod in response, and if his irritation had shown – Barca had no doubt that it had – the young man didn’t react to it, or his clipped tone.

"You’re in Ward 2B. I'm Pietros, one of the nurses on duty tonight." the guy – nurse (shit, why did that seem to strange to him?) – explained, shifting towards the bottom of the bed where he removed the chart from its holder. "Can you remember what happened?"

His eyes slid over the young man's frame as he moved back to Barca’s side. He was tall – not as tall as Barca, but certainly above average – and Barca wondered at what was hidden by the unflattering hospital uniform. It took a while for the words to register as a question, and he frowned again, watching as the chart was placed on the bedside table. He’d rather think about Pietros’ calming voice than the pain he felt. Yeah, he knew what had happened. The mixture of dull ache and sharper pain at the base of his skull told him that he’d been cut, as well as hit, explaining why he was in hospital in the first place.

"Bastard glassed me. Hey, how long have I been here?"

He wished his voice was softer. Pietros turned to a cart off to the side, busy as he answered Barca, but Barca’s attention was caught by the source of discomfort in his arm – a cannula. It wasn’t attached to anything.

“About three hours, but casualty gave you to us two hours ago.  It’s just gone three,” Pietros replied. Barca let his attention shift back to the guy. With tympanic thermometer in hand, he moved back to Barca, who straightened his head without being asked, allowing Pietros access to his ear. Both were silent as he took the reading, and when the instrument beeped and Pietros moved away, Barca watched him. He wanted to sit up, but realised almost before he tried that he felt too tired to do so. He settled for asking another question, wanting to hear Pietros’ voice as much as the answer.

“Is anyone here with me?”

A smile spread across Pietros’ face as he answered. “Your friends went home about an hour and a half ago. One of them asked me to give you a message though. Crixus says to get better.”

Barca gave a laugh at that. It hurt, and he felt drained, but it was worth it to think about what Crixus had actually said. There was no way the message wasn’t full of expletives and a derogatory comment of some sort towards Barca. “Those words exactly?”

“I summarised,” Pietros grinned back. “I’m just going to check your heart rate and blood pressure, okay?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, settling for verbalising his consent rather than nodding. Pietros moved round the bed, to the arm free from the drip. His fingers found the pulse in Barca’s wrist first, and Barca watched the relaxed expression on his face as he counted. Gently releasing Barca’s wrist, Pietros’ fingers then deftly but carefully pushed the fabric of the hospital gown up completely out of the way, securing the cuff. If he thought anything of Barca’s physique, it didn’t show in his expression as he focused on the task. Barca let his eyes fall closed, focusing on the touch of cool metal against his arm and the warm fingers holding it in place, trying to keep his breathing even. The underlying, unfamiliar anxiety was still there, along with the undeniable fact that he found Pietros extremely attractive.

“Still with us?”

Barca opened his eyes, realising Pietros was done. “Yeah.”

Pietros’ tone was light, but there was underlying concern there. Barca remembered fragments of his time in casualty, and the way he seemed to have lost consciousness so easily. Hell, he’d been knocked out after that wanker had taken a swing at his head. It was kind of embarrassing. He didn’t want to pass out again.

“Your vitals are much better,” Pietros remarked, sorting the equipment back onto the cart and scratching down notes on Barca’s chart. “How do you feel?”

Barca processed the question for a moment before giving a humourless laugh. “Fucking lousy.”

His response got another smile, and Barca wondered how anyone could smile so easily and so genuinely. “I bet. And the pain?”

“Can I get something for it?” As much as he hated admitting it, Barca wasn’t in the mood to tolerate the way the back of his head was hurting. His body felt lousy enough, and he’d take any relief he could get.

“When the doctor comes in a minute he’ll be able to prescribe you something,” Pietros assured him. “I’m done here, so I’ll let him know you’re awake.”

“You’re going?” Of course he was. Barca felt stupid, and then annoyed with himself.

“Yeah, I’ll be back though. Do you need anything before I go?”

“Water?”

Pietros nodded, moving to the bottom of the bed and replacing the chart, before cleaning his hands with the gel there. He gave him a soft, disarming smile. “Of course.”

And just like that, he was gone. Barca watched as, all too quickly, he left the room, leaving the sliding door ajar.

-

The doctor had been and gone before Pietros returned with the jug of water and a glass, and the guy looked so genuinely sorry as he placed it on the bedside table that Barca felt bad for him.

“I’m so sorry I took so long. Are you okay? Good news?”

“Yeah,” he said in reference to the doctor. “Staying though.”

Pietros just nodded, pouring the water. “You’ll probably be here another night or two. Would you like to sit up?”

Barca made to move, and found Pietros shifting to his side to help him. “I can manage,” he snapped, instantly regretting his tone. He sighed heavily, irritated with himself. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pietros dismissed, giving him a reassuring smile, “I’d feel lousy too. Here.”

He didn’t understand how anyone could be so patient and forgiving of his abruptness. Most people shut up sharpish, or, in the case of his work colleagues and flatmate, snapped right back. Or laughed at him. Barca pissy from a hangover was a great source of amusement for Auctus.

Sitting up enough to drink with relative ease, Barca took the cool cup pressed to his hand and raised it to his lips. The back of his head hurt like hell. He’d had to have stitches, and he could feel where the dressing was adhering to his skin. It was going to leave a scar, but he supposed that at least once the area of hair they’d shaved off to get to the wound grew back it would be hidden, and at least it hadn’t done any damage to the ligament so close to where the glass had cut through his skin. He had been lucky, really, as far as taking a broken glass bottle to the head went.

Finished, he let Pietros take the cup, eyes falling on the cannula as he lowered his exhausted limb to the mattress. “Can this come out? What was it for anyway?”

“You were given a saline solution to help combat the blood loss. It was left in until we could determine how you were doing. It can come out now.”

“Can the doctor come take it out?” Barca watched as Pietros half-filled the cup again, a hint of a frown flickering across his features.

“Well a nurse can do it. Would you feel more comfortable with a more senior nurse?”

Barca would be fine with anyone. “No, can you do it?”

“Of course. Give me a minute, okay?”

With that, Pietros moved away, and Barca let his eyes fall shut. He tried to focus his attention after the young nurse – how old was he anyway? – as he left the room. Barca tried to think if he knew anyone else in his life whose personality came across as so soft and compassionate and who smiled so easily and openly, but he drew a blank.

His body felt the wrong kind of tired, and the pain wouldn’t let him find any comfort. He tried to sense for Pietros returning, listening to the activity out in the corridor. He could hear casual conversation between two female members of staff as they walked past his door, and the noise of a machine somewhere else in the ward, someone answering a phone, a door to what must be a cupboard being shut. Barely a second before Pietros greeted him again, Barca heard the soft sound of his footfall, and opened his eyes again far too easily for the level of fatigue crawling over his body. Pietros smiled as he approached the bed, placing the metal dish on the mattress next to Barca.

“I come bearing painkillers,” he announced. “I’ll administer them using the cannula, then we can take it out for you, okay?”

Barca wanted to nod, but the almost subconscious attempt to agree was hampered by the pain. Instead he gave a half mumble of agreement, half moan. His eyes flickered shut, not wanting to really watch.

“So, you prefer Barca?”

The question surprised him, and he opened his eyes, looking at Pietros’ face, but the young man’s attention was fixed on where he was pulling on latex gloves and preparing the injection. Of course, Crixus had been here, and will have spoken to Pietros. His first name would be written on his chart. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about Pietros knowing that about him. He knew it was unavoidable, but Barca never introduced himself to anyone using his given name.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, face turning away as it became apparent what was coming next. His mother had always told him firmly not to look when he was given injections – something Barca hadn’t understood as a kid who wanted nothing more than to watch what was going on – and slowly the idea that something bad would happen if he did look settled on him, and he’d never been able to shake it. It was pretty embarrassing really. His discomfort had to be obvious, but Pietros didn’t mention it. Instead, he just continued to speak, as if he knew that his voice would be comforting distraction enough.

“I think your first name’s actually really nice – unusual. I’ve never come across it before. There are a lot of really nice names like that. Then again,” it became clear he had finished administering the injection, as Barca heard the sound of the syringe being dropped back into the metal dish and the gloved fingers were gently touching his skin again, “there are some downright bizarre ones. It’s not the worst, but I was at university with a girl called Flower. We all thought it was just a nickname at first, but no, it was her given name. There, all done.”

Barca let him talk, focusing on his voice more than the words. Only when Pietros pulled away and straightened up did Barca look round, finding the soft smile on Pietros’ lips again. He was aware that he was staring. He couldn’t help it. Could anyone?

“Last thing, then I’ll leave you in peace, I promise,” Pietros said, pulling off the gloves and setting the dish to the side. “We have a menu of the options that will be available during mealtimes. Shall we quickly fill one out?”

Barca had no appetite, but he considered the question. He supposed it was better to decide for himself what shitty food he had to attempt to eat later on. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed. At his response, Pietros walked round to the other side of the bed – the side with a plastic chair stored in the corner – and shifted the chair closer to the bed, sitting down. Barca’s eyes followed him, ignoring the twinge of pain at the back of his head and he turned to face him. From his pocket, Pietros pulled a small piece of paper, and a pen. Using a foot hooked around the leg of the chair, he then shifted the angle of it, so he could show the paper more clearly to Barca, who studied it at length.

“Cereal,” he finally decided, “and orange juice. Then… soup.” He paused, eyes flickering to the beautiful man sitting so patiently beside him. Pietros’ own focus was on the menu he still held for Barca, and he used the opportunity to take in more about him; the tone of his skin, the texture of his tightly coiled dark hair, the soft profile of his features. Not wanting to be caught looking, he dragged his attention back to the stunted menu, considered the options for the evening meal. He really didn’t want to still be here by then. “I guess the chicken and vegetables, and just rice pudding or something.”

With Barca’s reply, Pietros pulled the paper back towards himself, marking the choices on the sheet. As he did so, Barca thought about the fact he was barely a second away from leaving. He didn’t want him to go. Sure, he was tired, he felt lousy and wanted to sleep, but he would be okay staying awake if Pietros was nearby. Belatedly, Barca realised the pain seemed to have lessened.

“Right, that’s it done,” Pietros smiled, starting to stand up. “I’ll let you get some sleep.” He folded the paper and put both it and the pen back in his pocket, his other hand shifting the chair back to its place in the corner. Despite what he felt, Barca smiled awkwardly in return, wanting to reward him with something more than just a blank look. The expression felt wrong: Barca couldn’t recall the last time he tried to smile entirely for the sake of someone else, and not just because something amused him. Pietros moved round the bed again, collecting the metal dish. “I’ll no doubt see you tonight, but if you need anything,” he indicated to the bed’s control panel on the bedside table, with a clear call button marked, “then just call, okay?”

“Okay,” he echoed, thinking more about the fact Pietros would be working the following night than anything else. As he moved away, though, Barca couldn’t help but call his name out. Pietros stopped and turned in the doorway his finger on the light switch, and Barca found he couldn’t make himself maintain eye contact. His gaze shifted to the skirting board as he expressed the sentiment. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” Pietros’ soft call brought Barca’s attention back to him. The guy was smiling widely. “You’re more than welcome.”

Pietros left, switching off the light and leaving the door open a fraction behind him, but Barca was too busy trying to work out what had just happened to register him going. He decided it had to be a sign of concussion. It wasn’t that he was impolite, it was just that Barca tended to be more abrupt and straightforward with what he said, and how he said it. He wasn’t used to feeling that insecure or exposed. No one got to him like that; it was just this one guy, and it should bother him more than it did.

He was far too tired for this. Weariness caught up with him much faster as the pain seemed to lessen. Sleep sounded good, and Barca decided to worry about what he thought of Pietros when he woke. He just wished he could wake up to the beautiful young man standing over him again.


End file.
